


Dislocated

by PoorWendy



Series: Inceptiversary 2016 - Trope Bingo [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Competence Kink, Competency, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Injuries, Soul-sucking jobs, arthur the judgapuss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorWendy/pseuds/PoorWendy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur bikes past this guy every morning.</p><p>And he's never <em>doing</em> anything... Surely this thirty-something whatever-he-is ought to have a job, or <em>something</em> to do all day besides hanging around with that smug look on his face.</p><p>He's out there when Arthur passes by on his way to the office. He's out there when Arthur passes by on his way home. Arthur even starts going out for lunch, just to bike by the porch in the middle of the day, because he just <em>needs</em> to know. I mean, this guy can't just be out there all day, can he???</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dislocated

**Author's Note:**

> For my Competence square, for Inception Bingo.

Arthur bikes past this asshole every morning.

He's never fucking  _doing_ anything. Always sitting on his porch, talking to elderly, retired neighbors who have likely  _earned_ the right to sit around all day doing nothing, but surely this thirty-something whatever-he-is ought to have a job or  _something_ to do all day besides hanging around with that smug look on his face.

He's out there when Arthur passes by on his way to the office. He's out there when Arthur passes by on his way home. Arthur even starts going out for lunch, just to bike by the porch in the middle of the day, because he just  _needs_ to know. I mean, this guy  _can't_ just be out there all day, can he???

But it turns out he can. He must be, because on his way to work, his way home, his way to lunch and back and hour later,  _there he is_.

When he's not engaging his elderly neighbors, he's got his stupid, smug face buried in a notebook, frantically scribbling at something.

Arthur isn't sure whether he's writing or drawing, or, given how violently his pen often moves, simply  _fencing_ with the page, but at any rate, Arthur remains unimpressed.

An artist. A writer. Either way, no wonder this guy is unemployed.

And of  _course_ Arthur would love to hang around all day, of course he'd like to spend time doing whatever struck his fancy right there in-the-moment, but he's a fucking adult.

So back and forth to his office he goes each day, and of course it's hard work, and of course most days he hates it, but that's the god damn human experience, isn't it? We do things because we have to, not because we want to. We soldier on.

\---

It's August. It's hotter than hot in the city, and Arthur seriously reconsiders his unwillingness to get a car, or take a cab, or even hop the fucking  _subway_ because now he  _really_ can't get away with biking in his work clothes, and has to shower in the company gym twice a day when he gets into the office.

He'd only have to shower once if he'd stop going out for lunch. But he's obsessed with this guy now. He doesn't understand him, and he doesn't expect to, but he just  _needs_ to see him every day, to be sure he's still out there, perplexingly stagnant.

So he's willing to sweat and sweat and double up on showers while this thick-bodied guy exudes nothing more than the embodiment of the word lackadaisical. And now that being outside feels similar to being in a jacuzzi, the guy's usually in nothing more than a pair of basketball shorts, his big, dumb muscles etched with seriously the  _most_ nonsensical tattoos Arthur has ever seen. The masks of tragedy and comedy, some sort of playing card, and Jesus, is that the  _fighting Irish??_

Today has already been a damn trial. His boss, Dom, ate up an hour of Arthur's morning complaining about his ongoing divorce and custody battle. Whenever Arthur is feeling particularly lonely at night, he reminds himself of the once-passionate-romance that was Dom and his wife Mal, and how much they hate each other now, and how they're fighting over their kids. That garbage isn't worth the occasional night he has trouble sleeping, or feels weirdly cold in his bed, like having somebody next to him would just... make everything easier.

 _No_ , he tells himself,  _no, that's just some greeting card commercial festering in your head_. Real life is hard. It's lonely. It's boring. Arthur gave in to that a long time ago.

After Dom finally stopped chewing Arthur's ear off about Mal's  _evil_ lawyer, Maurice Fischer, his insufferable co-worker Nash popped his head in from his office across the hall to gloat about the new car he bought after his promotion. Arthur tried to convey an air of one who is not at all inconvenienced by riding a bicycle in hundred-degree heat, and who is not at all envious of somebody with a brand-new BMW.

So maybe he's biking a little furiously, which is something he always pats himself on the back about  _not_ doing. He's not even  _hungry_ , but somehow he still busted out of his office at noon sharp and took off in the usual direction, pedaling angrily, quickly, vehemently.

When he gets to the guy's porch, there he is. He's got a hammock set up.  _A hammock_. He's lounging with a baseball cap tilted over his eyes, wearing nothing else again except a pair of baggy basketball shorts.

Arthur's ready to scoff in his usual way when the guy tilts his head up, makes sudden but inarguable eye-contact with Arthur, and smiles.

The only thing Arthur realizes before  _it_ happens is that something is off with his pedaling. He looks down at his feet and before he can understand what's going on, he's headed toward the ground. His right foot is caught on something, he can't dismount, he can't stop; all he can do is hold out his hand as the ground comes up to meet him.

He saved his head from impact by bracing himself with his left hand, which is all well and good for his head, but now most of the left side of his body is aching, especially his shoulder, which he realizes is  _seriously_ fucked up when he tries and fails to hoist himself up.

"Oi!" he hears from somewhere above. "Stay put, would you?"

Arthur sees a pair of bare feet. He raises his eyes slowly. Bare legs, basketball shorts, vast stomach, inked chest, stupid face, baseball cap. Oh  _god_ how is this happening right now?

"Ungh," Arthur groans. "I have to get back to my office," he insists, unhooking his foot and pushing the bike away with an unsettling  _scrape_ against the pavement.

He hears Basketball-shorts snort. "You bloody well do not," he nearly laughs. The British accent surprises Arthur now that he notices it. The voice itself is as full of gravel as Arthur's multiple abrasions seem to be.

Arthur tries his luck with his right arm, and finds he can support his weight with it enough to get to his knees. Scratch that—his  _knee_. The left one doesn't feel broken, but the skin is definitely torn. He ignores the protestations from Basketball-shorts. "Listen, you might be able to hang around here all day long, but I have a  _job_ , okay? I shouldn't have come out for lunch today..."

Basketball-shorts laughs harder now, which makes Arthur feel rather indignant. He knew the words were too-rude as soon as he'd said them, and was sort of actually dreading hearing the man's offended response, but the laughter makes him long for a "Fuck you," or "bugger off," or whatever this guy would say when insulted.

"What's so fucking funny?" he demands, which only makes the guy laugh harder.

"Nothing, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he insists, composing himself. "Listen, you really ought to stay still, you're pretty busted up."

Arthur shakes his head and brings himself to standing, and in spite of the guy's words he lets Arthur brace himself on his arm, which Arthur really wishes he didn't have to do. "I know, but I have to—"

"Yes, get back to work," the guy says. "If you really insist on moving, at least come inside for a minute, let me take a look at you."

Arthur rolls his eyes, and even that exhausts him. He tries to bend forward to pick up his bike. The aching is catching up to him, and he has to concede that the guy is probably right, and he can't exactly just  _take off_ right now. "Alright... I... Okay," he finally agrees, and lets the guy help him up the front steps of his porch.

"Eames," the guy says. "My name," he specifies, at the confused look Arthur didn't realize he was expressing.

"Arthur," he answers.

They don't say anything else until Eames helps him slump into a kitchen chair that he's pulled over beside the sink. Eames pulls a backpack out from a cabinet under the sink, and Arthur is immediately made nervous that the guy apparently has some sort of packed bag stowed away.

"God, you're a criminal, aren't you?" he sighs.

Eames grins, and Arthur pretends not to notice a row of crooked teeth. He especially pretends not to find them at all endearing. He pretends that the wiggly feeling those teeth give his belly and his knees is a mere side-effect of eating utter shit outside two minutes earlier.

Eames opens the backpack and Arthur realizes quickly that it's full of first-aid materials. "A paramedic, actually," Eames tells him, as he pulls a few items from within the bag.

Arthur swallows, feeling a little bad about the accusation. "Oh," he says softly. "Sorry..."

Eames' smile is unwavering as he stands and begins soaping up his hands liberally. "It's alright. Suppose it is a bit of a dodgy way to store first-aid."

Arthur fights the smile that's threatening to show. "A bit," Arthur agrees. He wonders what it is about being injured that has him so warmed up to the guy, that has him so inexplicably  _okay_ with being provided medical care by a man with no shirt or shoes.

"Let's see what we're dealing with, shall we?" Eames asks as he finishes washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

"I really don't think it's so bad," Arthur tries to argue, wanting to fill the silence as Eames approaches him, looking entirely too comfortable in the heat that Arthur suddenly notices filling the kitchen, in spite of the window AC unit chattering away over the sink.

Eames rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm  _sure_ you're right, but for my own sanity, would you mind terribly letting the professional have a look?"

Arthur bites his tongue and nods.

Eames crouches down in front of him, and gazes up briefly into his eyes before turning to his injuries. He prods Arthur's left shoulder gently and Arthur winces and swears. It's only now that Arthur notices how strangely his arm is hanging, and he realizes the problem about two seconds before Eames confirms it out loud. "Dislocated," he says. "You ever dislocated anything before?" Eames asks.

Arthur shakes his head. "Pretty sure I know what's coming though," he says.

Eames smiles. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Arthur says. "This is the part where you tell me you're going to pop it back in on the count of three, and you do it on two, right?"

Eames smiles wider at that. "Pretty smart for a guy who can barely ride a bike," he offers. Arthur shoots him his steeliest glare, and Eames puts up his hands apologetically. "So what is it you do, Arthur? You must work with your brain, not your hands."

Arthur exhales a soft laugh in spite of himself and replies, "I'm an engineer."

Eames raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Well that's more interesting than I'd pegged you for, if I'm being honest."

"Well," Arthur admits, "it's the more interesting version of the answer. I work for a firm that moves houses."

"Moves houses?" Eames asks, perplexed.

Arthur nods. "You know, houses on the beach that are in danger of falling into the ocean and stuff. Like that."

Eames considers this. "Well, that's... That's sort of interesting, I suppose."

Arthur laughs. "I guess," he says. "It's just not quite what I had in mind when I became an engineer."

Eames smiles sort of sympathetically and takes Arthur's hand in his. He looks up at him, something strange in his eyes, and then in an instant, Eames' other hand is on Arthur's shoulder.

Sudden, sharp,  _ineffable_ pain. "FUCK," Arthur shouts, looking to his left to see his shoulder popped back into place. The pain ebbs after a few seconds into a persistent ache, something resembling relief.

Eames is looking at him hesitantly, offering a trace of a smile as he says, "3."

Arthur laughs, adrenaline coursing through him now, making him feel goofy. "I have to say, I wasn't expecting it."

"That's the goal," Eames explains. Arthur keeps laughing softly. "Alright, darling, worst part's over, if you ask me," Eames tells him. Arthur notices he's still holding his hand. "Lucky you didn't break your fingers, falling like that," he tells him, and Arthur wonder's whether he's imagining it, or if Eames is  _really_ trying to make an excuse for having held on for so long.

Eames pulls a small flashlight from the bag and takes a close look at the road rash on Arthur's elbow, knee, shin. He places clean fingers delicately on the outskirts of each abrasion, looking intently, taking stock, it would seem. "Think you can save the leg, Doc?" Arthur asks.

Eames smiles. "Oh, we'll have to work quickly, but I dare say you'll walk again," he answers. "Anything on your ribs? Your hips?"

Arthur sits up straighter and pulls his shirt up enough to expose his ribs. "All good there," Eames says. Arthur uses the counter to brace himself with his right arm and slowly raises himself to standing. He tries to pull down the waistband of his athletic shorts with his left hand, but his shoulder aches with even the slightest movement. "Easy," Eames says softly. "Do you mind if I?" Arthur's eyes must give away more worry than he'd planned to, because Eames says afterward, "I promise I'll protect your modesty."

Arthur laughs at that and nods. Eames only has to expose about three inches of skin to see the damage there. "How's it look?" Arthur asks.

"Not too bad," Eames answers. "Your shorts took the brunt of this one, I think. Your elbow and your knee are worse, certainly. You brought a lot of road in here with you," he observes, picking a bit of gravel out of Arthur's knee gingerly with pinched fingers.

" _Agh_ ," Arthur grunts. "So what's next, then?"

Eames gets up. "Think you can stay standing for a few minutes?" Arthur nods. "Alright, come here. Hold your arm out over the sink, if you can." Arthur does. Eames turns on the sink and pulls the sprayer up. "This won't feel  _great_ , I suppose, but we've got to clean you out."

Arthur nods again, and Eames sprays the water over his elbow. Arthur winces, and Eames puts his free hand on the back of Arthur's neck, comforting, reassuring. Arthur watches as the dirt and specks of asphalt fall away into the sink and down the drain with the stream of water. "You're pretty good at this, huh?" he says.

"Surprises you, does it?" Eames asks as he checks to see that all things not-Arthur are washed away from his skin. "I wondered what you must be thinking of me, riding by with that  _look_ on your face every day."

Arthur looks down, feeling guilty. "I just... You're never...  _doing_ anything... I didn't think..."

Eames shakes his head. "It's alright," he says. He washes his hands again and pulls a big gauze square from the backpack, along with a roll of medical tape. He opens the gauze, spreads a good amount of bacitracin over it, and places it over the torn flesh of Arthur's elbow. He tapes it down on all sides, then wraps two strips around his arm to keep it put. "I work the night shift. Not every night, but most."

"And you... You make a living off that?" Arthur says, looking around at an apartment that, while not exactly the epitome of luxury, looks like it must be financed by more than night-shifts.

Eames huffs a laugh, half-indignant, half-amused. He motions for Arthur to sit back down, and Arthur does. "Well," Eames says, opening another cabinet and pulling out a large plastic bin, like a storage tote without a lid. He puts it on the floor and coaxes Arthur's feet into it. "I sell a piece here and there," he says.

"A piece?" Arthur asks. Eames motions to the wall opposite the kitchen sink. Arthur looks up and sees five frames hung on the wall, each containing a sketch, or drawing, or painting. "Did  _you_ do these?" he asks, too-incredulously, he knows. Eames nods, and goes about spraying water onto Arthur's knee and shin, cleaning them out the same way he did his elbow. "So, an artist. I knew it was that or a writer, the way you go to war with your notebook."

Eames smiles up at him again. "Very observant, Arthur," he says. "So I guess you paid as much attention to me as I did to you."

Arthur twists his mouth up, and might blush. "I never saw you notice me until today."

"Well, I did," Eames says. "It'd be hard not to, darling."

Arthur  _definitely_ blushes.

Eames bandages up Arthur's knee, and then his shin. "So how do we go about my hip, then?" Arthur asks nervously. Eames pulls a bottle out of his bag, an empty squeezable bottle, one you'd expect to hold condiments. Eames helps Arthur shift so that he's sitting sideways on the chair, the exposed scrape on his hip more accessible, and suspended over the bin beneath him.

Eames fills the bottle with water from the sink and goes about spraying Arthur's hip clean, more delicately than he'd done with the sprayer from the sink, maybe because he's trying not to soak Arthur's shorts, or maybe because he feels the same strange heat being so close to Arthur's lowered waistband that Arthur now feels.

There's too much silence while it's happening, and the way that Eames goes so far out of his way to  _not_ put his hands on the skin around Arthur's hip makes Arthur more excited than feeling his fingers would make him, he thinks. The whole situation has him in disbelief. Arthur is trying to figure out whether it's seeing Eames' precise medical skill and bedside manner, his artistic talent, that has him so suddenly  _into_ the man. Because maybe, Arthur thinks,  _maybe_ , he saw something else in him all along; maybe it was what kept him passing by every day, what kept him so obsessed.

He tries not to dwell on it, because whatever the case, Eames' steady hands, the way he stays so calm and knows just what to do to fix Arthur, it has Arthur trying hard not to breathe so heavily.

Finally, Eames pats Arthur's hip dry with some paper towels and bandages him up. Arthur remembers to breathe. He suspects that Eames does too.

"Look at that, good as new," Eames says, once again bearing the confident smile that started this mess in the first place. He digs around in his bag and pulls out a bottle of Ibuprofen.

As he's opening the child-proof cap, Arthur asks, "Got anything stronger?"

Eames grins wider. "Got some beer in the fridge," he says, tossing the bottle back into the backpack, "but I didn't think you'd be interested since you have to get back to work so desperately."

Arthur bites his lower lip. "I could probably take the rest of the day off."

Eames feigns surprise. "But, darling,  _who_ will move the houses?"

Arthur laughs at that. Eames grabs two beers out of the fridge and then helps Arthur out to the porch, where Arthur sits down on the cushioned bench he's so often seen Eames lounging on.

Eames pulls Arthur's bike up off the side of the road and rests it against the steps before he sits beside Arthur.

They clink their bottles together, and sit there drinking for a moment.

"I guess I ought to apologize," Arthur says.

"Oh? For what?" Eames asks.

"Well, I just... I guess I kind of, passed a bit of judgment, coming by every day and seeing you out here, not working or anything like that. But you're a really great artist... and, like, a  _really_ great paramedic."

Eames shows his crooked teeth again as he smiles in response. "Well, thanks for reconsidering. And, I must say, I'm honored you'd take time off for me. Though I'm sure the rest of Saito Engineering can manage without you for an afternoon."

Arthur stares down at his bottle, but smiles anyway. Until he realizes he never told Eames the name of the firm he worked for. "How—?" he begins, but when he looks up, Eames is flashing Arthur's own business card at him. "How did you—"

Eames laughs, and pulls Arthur's wallet from his pocket. "I _am_ a paramedic, and I  _am_ an artist," he says, tossing the wallet over to him. "But I suppose you might not have been entirely wrong when you thought I was a criminal."

Arthur shakes his head even as he laughs, somehow not even irked that the guy managed to pick his pocket. He leans back, and takes a long swig from his bottle.

Maybe it's not such a bad day.


End file.
